


independent study

by misstaken



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Doppelganger, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sorry Not Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 07:31:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18205391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misstaken/pseuds/misstaken
Summary: The ability to perfectly mimic the form of others is convenient for not only espionage and assassination — it also ensures that you never have to spend a night by yourself.





	independent study

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Pseudo-Singularity I: Shinjuku.

The living quarters he chose for himself are opulent: he has claimed the entire top floor of one of Shinjuku’s luxury residences with huge glass windows overlooking the glittering city. Below him lies what pleasures are left in this broken shadow of a Japanese metropolis. Were the circumstances different he thinks he would enjoy this place; perhaps he will be given another chance, once his new master’s errand is complete.

 

Yan Qing shakes his head at his own foolishness. This was his second chance, and once again the stars deigned him to serve beneath a man walking headfirst into his own destruction. Perhaps the Skillful Star is also an inauspicious star, he muses for a moment, his focus shifting from the cityscape to his own reflection in the window.

 

“No,” he says aloud this time, “screw that. If luck wasn’t on my side, I wouldn’t have been blessed with these sick abilities. Maybe I’m a luckier bastard than most, to know my destiny and understand how to make the best of it. Most of these wealthy fools can’t even see how fucked the world’s gotten when they’re staring it in the face.”

 

He knows that his appearance is conventionally attractive. It served him well during his life and this remains unchanged in Shinjuku. When he first ingrained himself amongst the Japanese elites, women and men alike willingly flocked to him, but he is not here to make friends or seek romance unless said relationships are directly beneficial to his goals. However, the side effect of becoming the doppelgänger of so many targets is the mental baggage they leave behind. After he impersonated and subsequently murdered his first target, the crime boss who owned this penthouse, Yan Qing was immediately overwhelmed by the man’s memories. Every room, every corner, every surface of this penthouse reeks of debauchery and exploitation with enough drugs, sex, and money to satisfy any normal man ten times over. Typically these wouldn’t bother an outlaw, but the sudden influx of remnants of another man’s life caught him entirely by surprise.

 

“Damn it.” The assassin of Shinjuku sits down on the edge of the bed, pressing the heel of his hand against his growing erection. Yan Qing hoped that the pure heart of his most recent transformation would overcome the foreign flashbacks of vices indulged in this room. “I knew it was a mistake to come back here.” His cock nudged his palm through his loose silk trousers, and Yan Qing rolled his hand over the head, sighing as pleasure spread through his groin. 

 

“Welp, since I’ve got some time to kill, who wants to play with me tonight?” His hand moved from the bulge in his pants to the bed, and he pushed himself to his feet, strolling towards the wall of full length mirrors to his left. In the darkness, the murky reflection of his lean silhouette resembles a shadow more than a human — an image befitting a man of his predilection. “Not that kind, friendly assassin Hassan, that’s for sure. Maybe Saber Alter? She seems like the kinda girl who could have a dick if she needed one.” He chuckles to himself. “Nah, not in the mood for tits.” 

 

At the back of his mind, a pair of azure wings gently flutter, and Yan Qing knows who his companion will be tonight. He has taken this form upon request, but never used it outside of his master’s supervision. The assassin closes his pale green eyes and breathes deeply, his body changing into that of his target. When he opens his eyes again, James Moriarty stands in front of the mirror, round blue eyes staring back at him. He runs his black-gloved hands over his body, taking time to examine its form. His erection is less visible through Moriarty’s pinstriped suit than his own pants but no less urgent in its need for attention. A slight flush colors his pale cheeks; Yan Qing is surprised at how attractive the older man looks in this aroused state. 

 

He clears his throat, and in his boss’s voice says, “I never knew an old bastard could be this down to fuck.” The words sound strange in Moriarty’s British accent, but Yan Qing doesn’t want to delve deep enough into the other man’s psyche to affect his speech pattern. It’s not necessary for this situation. “Glad his dick still works,” he says, cupping his groin through the heavy fabric. 

 

Using the remote control by the bed, he turns the overhead lights to a low setting so he can better inspect his new form. Moriarty wears an absolutely ridiculous amount of clothes, he decides almost immediately, and sets to the task of removing them. Yan Qing’s chivalrous nature keeps him from tearing off the borrowed garments in a fit of lustful destruction, so he begins by unbuckling the heavy cape and ornate golden epaulettes, laying them on the dressing table next to the mirror, and follows suit with the buttons on his waistcoat. As he untucks burgundy silk from his throat, he pays attention to the unfamiliar tension in his fingers; this stiffening must be a consequence of age. For a moment he wonders why Moriarty would have been summoned as a man past his physical prime, and then pushes those thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand. The stiffness is again present as he twists the cufflinks at his wrists, sapphire stones a sharp contrast against the nearly translucent skin beneath his shirt. Running a gloved finger along the veins on the underside of his wrist, Yan Qing notes the peculiarity of such an opaquely destructive mind in such a fragile body. 

 

He expects the butterflies to fill the room but they stay close to the cape, floating in lazy circles above the dressing table. Ignoring them he returns to undressing, occasionally catching a flash of shimmering blue out of the corner of his eye. The gloves come off next, and he carefully examines his hands. This is something that Yan Qing does every time he takes another form; many times, a person’s hands tell more about their life than their words ever can. Moriarty has finely manicured nails and pampered skin, traits typical of a man who never sees physical skirmish or labor. He touches his cheek with those smooth fingertips, stroking his thumb and forefinger over the coarse hair above his lip. What does his kiss feel like, Yan Qing idly wonders, his mind slipping out of his borrowed body for a moment to imagine Moriarty’s thin lips and moustache pressing against his own. With closed eyes, one hand removes his glasses and sets them next to his shed clothes, and the other loosens his white leather belt to relieve the pressure on his erection.

 

Briefly, he considers finishing the task at hand while still half-dressed; it would serve his overdressed boss right to have his bespoke trousers soaked in come, but Yan Qing is a man with standards. That said, he picks up pace in undressing, every movement now a reminder of how aroused he is. Moriarty’s elegant hands, his rough kiss, his hot come dripping down the back of his thighs as he pulls out—

 

The vest is shed without a second thought and Yan Qing sets to work on the buttons of his white shirt, for a brief moment appreciating the garment’s construction compared to the mass-produced clothing worn in modern-day Shinjuku. His fingers ache as he fumbles with the small pearl fasteners, tugging the tails out from his waistband. Predictably, there is another thin shirt beneath this one, and Yan Qing is sure that if he somehow gets a third chance at life, he never wants to go to England as it is clearly a frozen wasteland based on the layers upon layers of clothing required for comfortable existence. He drops the undershirt on the bed next to the button-down and runs his hands over Moriarty’s torso, the flush on his cheeks brightening as he thumbs his nipples into peaks, watching them redden through the silver hair covering his chest. He sighs deeply and examines his image in the mirror, lips parted and legs dropping open to either side — a perfect picture of debauchery.

 

“For an old rich dude, you’re in better shape than I expected. In China a guy like you’d be as round as the fuckin’ Buddha,” he says to Moriarty’s reflection, glancing down at the sizable bulge in his trousers. He can feel precome soaking whatever sort of underwear he has on, his balls already drawing tight against his body. Yan Qing wonders if it’s been that long since he last jerked off or if Moriarty just doesn’t last as long as a man half his age can. At this point such trivialities are just so; his belt hits the floor with a metallic thud and his fingers fumble with impatience as they draw his zipper down. The shoes are an afterthought, kicked off as quickly as his pinstriped pants, and he tugs Moriarty’s constricting undershorts away to free his cock.

 

His back cracks audibly as he sits down on the bed, but Yan Qing’s attention is on Moriarty’s dick, longer and thicker than he had expected. He slicks his hand with precome and runs it up and down his shaft, pulling the foreskin back from the head experimentally and thrusting once or twice into his cupped palm. He switches from his right hand to his left to retrieve a bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer; modern-day Shinjuku definitely has its perks in the realm of erotica. Fortunately, Moriarty has long fingers that wrap easily around his girth, and Yan Qing envelops his cock in the soft, slick warmth of his hand, opening his eyes and staring at the image in the mirror. 

 

Moriarty’s jaw is set and his Adam’s apple bobs as Yan Qing breathes hard, the pace of his hand quickening with his building pleasure. His right hand grips his upper thigh, noting the smooth skin, coarse silver hair, and  unexpected muscle tone. His body would never last in a brawl, but it was not as neglected as Yan Qing originally surmised. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, and while it lacks definition gained through training, Moriarty’s chest is taut and his belly flat. “I’m definitely gonna picture you naked next time I see you,” he says to his reflection before dropping his coiffed head back and groaning loudly, his fist tightening around his shaft until he can feel the veins bulge beneath his fingers. 

 

He’s close, too close — Moriarty would make it last, draw out his pleasure until it hurt. Yan Qing generally preferred a quick fuck, but that wouldn’t allow adequate time for observation and analysis. Precome and lube ooze from between his fingers as he pumps his cock rapidly, his mellifluous voice cracking into another long groan. He cracks one eye open to gaze at the deep lines of his furrowed brow and wrinkles spidering from the corner of his other eye. “Bloody hell,” he groans aloud — is that something Moriarty would say when the pleasure of fucking Yan Qing became too much to bear? As much as he wants to see Moriarty’s face as he orgasms, he screws his eyes shut and uses quick strokes to finish himself, imagining the professor’s lustful expression as come splashes over his groin and belly. 

 

Yan Qing opens his eyes and sits upright, the debauched image of Professor James Moriarty nearly enough to make him hard again. Unfortunately, this is not one of the benefits of being a Phantom Spirit, which is both a blessing and a curse at times. Moriarty’s hair is still perfectly coiffed thanks to whatever magecraft he uses to style it, but his angular face is red and the veins in his neck are visible. His cock begins to soften, so Yan Qing reluctantly retrieves the handkerchief from Moriarty’s vest pocket and uncurls his fingers from his shaft.

 

The cell phone on the nightstand rings, and Yan Qing takes one last look in the mirror, imprinting Moriarty’s post-orgasm visage on his brain, and clears his throat before answering.

 

“What is it? I was busy.” His tone is nothing short of annoyed, and the sudden change in his pitch and accent is startling to his dopamine-saturated brain.

 

“Boss, they’re back. The Master from Chaldea and the Servants, that is. Our guys on the ground just saw them heading back to that burger joint.” Gunfire sounds in the background, and a woman screams. He wants to kill the last Master. He needs to, for the League’s plan to succeed — but if he dies in the process and leaves this hellhole behind, all the better.

 

“Awesome,” Yan Qing says, springing up from the bed with the renewed agility of a martial artist in his prime. Moriarty’s clothes are still scattered about the room. He idly considers tidying up and eschews this in favor of tossing the soiled handkerchief on top of Moriarty’s cape. “I’m on my way. Have backup ready, if this plan doesn’t work there’s gonna be a helluva brawl.”

 

He hangs up the phone and flips the light off, not bothering to lock the door behind him. Moriarty’s face, rapt with ecstasy, flashes through his mind and he grins sadistically.

 

“Damn, y’know, I think the only thing I regret is not being here to see that bastard Emiya’s face when they send him to investigate my place after this is over.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be a smutty character study of Moriarty but in the process I got into Yan Qing’s head a lot more than I expected to. 
> 
> I listened to a lot of Nine Inch Nails while I was writing and editing this - I think it’s my official “dysfunctional relationship smut” soundtrack. “Only” goes with the overall theme and Yan Qing’s general mindset towards the end of his role in that chapter.
> 
> For the record, Yan Qing is hot, but Moriarty totally put a bullet through my heart (if it wasn’t obvious) (pun intended)


End file.
